"Naming Crayons, or the Edges of Denim" by Kari Nguyen

Naming Crayons, or the Edges of Denim

Somewhere between outer space and the mountain meadow survives Canary Square, a place of little consequence save for the fact that it lies under the cerulean ceiling particular to our land and rests on that raw umber which shares space with the orchid, goldenrod, and cornflower and abuts the green blue sea where the manatee rolls under the shadow of clouds. Here the timber wolf and beaver perk their ears as a small boy rings a lavender bell, calling his family to an outdoor table spread with asparagus sandwiches and pitchers of almond milk and frosty cups of pink sherbet and baskets brimming with ambrosia of plums, apricots, and melon. The final spoon's fall signals day's close, and the sunglow, cerise and startling and bittersweet, lends light's last blush so that the neon carrots and atomic tangerines and handles of antique brass seen through the windows of houses gleam and shimmer before turning to copper, and the inchworm makes its slow way past the wild strawberry plants, past the old wisteria leaning nearly to touch its back, through the ferns yellowing (even now!) at newly curled edges.

From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you realizes you've been here before.

From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you remembers being here.

From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you remembers this place.

From this view in an otherwise sad world, a small part of you remembers.

And the inchworm - out of sight now. And us, well - we are already on our way to forgetting.

Sam Rasnake, Jun 24, 2013

Wonderful to read this at FLASH MOB and again here, Kari. Favorite:

"The final spoon’s fall signals day’s close, and the sunglow, cerise and startling and bittersweet, lends light’s last blush so that the neon carrots and atomic tangerines and handles of antique brass seen through the windows of houses gleam and shimmer before turning to copper, and the inchworm makes its slow way past the wild strawberry plants, past the old wisteria leaning nearly to touch its back, through the ferns yellowing (even now!) at newly curled edges."

Nice writing. *

Joani Reese, Jun 24, 2013

I am going to use a word I rarely use because it is often a throw-away term people write when they have nothing more concrete to say about an object or idea that moves them: Beautiful. What a wonderful combination of images and ideas. This is a feast for the senses, sad and hopeful, sweet, and even a bit apocalyptic in its gentle way. Excellent, excellent work.*

Beate Sigriddaughter, Jun 24, 2013

This sparkles and gives consolation from a deep place of yearning that somehow promises to be filled. *

David Ackley, Jun 25, 2013

Rich and palpable, redolent with light, ripe fruit, the seas and mountains of an ideal land.

Ann Bogle, Jun 25, 2013

This is a fully realized very short story. To me, it is about World going to bed for the night, about World transiting from sun to sundown, about the further transit to dying later, to forgetting. The colors and words for colors and the vegetables and the glimpses of people and the inchworm and other animals all make it a delight to read, and not an exercise, as Joani mentions, in constructing beauty in a passage, though it achieves beauty. *